The Risks We Take
by Bluecrow213
Summary: Beaumont is recovering well after being shot, but Walsh is having trouble dealing with his reaction in the aftermath. Takes place shortly after '42'. I do not own any of these characters.
1. Chapter 1

_When he kissed her goodbye, it never crossed his mind that it would be the last time. _

_She seemed fine, they'd spent the evening reminiscing about some of the better pranks that had been pulled by members of the 2nd squad. She'd been allowed to start eating a few days earlier, and the doctors were even talking about releasing her in a couple of days. Before he left, he kissed her, and she grabbed the front of his t-shirt and responded in a way that made him chuckle and say, "Yeah, you're definitely feeling better!" _

_He went home and slept, opened the diner for a couple of hours, ran a few errands, and then headed back to the hospital, stopping on the way to pick up some food for her. She'd been complaining about the tasteless slop they were serving her in the hospital, so he figured he'd suprise her with some gourmet soup._

_It wasn't until he stepped out of the elevator that he started to realize that something was wrong. The nurse at the nursing station looked up and her smile faded when she saw who it was. He could hear agitated voices down the hall, and saw Sgt Brown was standing outside her room, looking shocked. When he saw Walsh, he began to walk towards him, and Walsh didn't like what he read in the other man's face. _

_"What happened?" he demanded, trying to push past Brown, but his superior stopped him. _

_"I'm sorry – they said it was one chance in..."_

_"What happened?" he said again. He tried to shake off the restraining hand that was gripping his arm. Why wouldn't Brown let him go into the room?_

_"They said it was a blood clot, it migrated to her lung, and... Walsh, they said it was fast, she hardly knew what was happening. I'm sorry... she died about an hour ago."_

_Walsh shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "But she was fine yesterday... she can't be dead. What, this is some kind of sick prank...?"_

_He pushed past Brown and shoved his way into the room, just in time to see the nurse lift the sheet and drape it over Beamont's face..._

He woke in a sweat, trying to sit up, getting tangled in the sheet. As he fought his way free of it, he looked down at her beside him. Beaumont was sleeping peacefully, her face turned towards him. She was breathing slowly, deeply. The shadows around her eyes hadn't quite faded yet, and her face still had a slightly pinched look, but she looked better than she had done, even just four days ago when she'd finally been released from the hospital. He was staying at her place, so that he'd be right there if she needed him.

And every night since, he'd had the same nightmare, of arriving at the hospital to find that she was dead, and he hadn't been there with her. Moving carefully, he slid out of bed, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He drained the glass in one long gulp, then went back into the bedroom, but he didn't get back into bed. Instead, he sat at the end of the bed, staring into the darkness.

"Walsh?"

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, trying to shake off the dark, oppressive feelings from the nightmare, before she spoke. She sat up. "You okay?" He nodded. He didn't want to worry her, to let her know what was haunting his dreams, but she said, "The dream again?"

"What... how did you know...?"

She crawled along the bed towards him, and put her arms around him from behind, leaning her head against his back. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the way it felt when she touched him. "No-one ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?" she said softly.

He shook his head. "What did I say?"

"'She was fine yesterday, she can't be dead'." Beaumont moved to sit beside him on the end of the bed. "Walsh, look at me. _Look at me_. I'm doing great. You know what they said, I'm healing a lot faster than they expected. They're going to take out the last of the stitches tomorrow..." She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, and amended, "Today. So you need to let it go. We're cops, these things happen. You can't spend your life worrying about me."

She reached for his face, turning him to look at her finally, so she could kiss him. Walsh responded, the nightmare slipping further away as he felt her lips move beneath his.

"And you have to be in work in a few hours," she added, breaking away. "Get some sleep."

"Yeah." Walsh got back under the covers and lay back down, smiling as Beaumont curled up beside him, one arm across his chest, her cheek resting against his shoulder. He tightened his arms around her, taking comfort in the feel of her, in the way she fit just right in his arms, in the faint vibration of her heartbeat, and the soft sound of her breathing, as she slipped back into sleep again.

But he didn't sleep again that night.


	2. Chapter 2

The accumulating sleep deficit was starting to catch up with Walsh. He was sure that Beaumont must have noticed - over the course of each evening, he knew he became increasingly monosyllabic and withdrawn, as exhaustion warred with his growing apprehensiveness about the dream he knew was waiting for him when he finally slept.

For another week they went on trying to pretend things were just the way they'd always been, but for Walsh everything had changed. She'd nearly died because she'd been with him. And every night he dreamed that he walked into the hospital to find that she was dead.

And then one night the dream was different.

_He watched Lutz walk in, and he already knew who he was. This man was here to kill him, except that it would be Beaumont who would get shot instead. He should grab the shotgun from under the counter, and scare the guy off. He knew what was going to happen, and he could _stop_ it happening. But he didn't, he went right on serving him food and drink. Now Lutz was asking for syrup, so that Walsh would have to turn his back, then he'd pull a gun and start shooting, firing wildly and Beaumont would get hit. Walsh's shotgun was within arms' reach, he knew he should just pick it up, and protect his woman. But instead he turned to get the syrup. He just let Lutz draw his gun, let him fire, let him hit Beaumont. It was his fault. He could have stopped it. And then he was on his knees beside Beaumont, with her blood gushing over his hands as he tried to put pressure on the wound. And she was clutching his shoulder, shaking him. Shaking the idiot who had just let it all happen. Yelling at him..._

"Walsh! C'mon, snap out of it!"

He woke, but she was still shaking him. No, this wasn't a dream, the hand on his shoulder was very real, she was sitting up, looking down at him, her face creased with concern. "You were having that dream again."

"It... no. Yeah." He didn't bother explaining it was a different dream, that this time he just knowingly let the whole thing happen. Walsh sat up, and turned away, swinging his legs out of bed. He couldn't look her in the eye.

The silence stretched between them, until finally she said, "I think you should talk to someone."

"What, a shrink?" Walsh snorted.

"Maybe. It doesn't have to be a shrink, just someone to listen."

Walsh shook his head, giving a short, humorless laugh. "I'm not the one who got shot..."

"But you _are_ the one falling apart over it."

Her blunt assessment finally made him turn around to look at her, his expression incredulous. "Are you saying I'm losing it?" He hadn't meant to sound so confrontational, but she didn't take offense. She knelt on the bed beside him, and reached out to lay her hand on his cheek.

"I'm saying that if you talk about it while you're awake, it'll stop invading your dreams."

"Talking about it won't change what happened. You got shot because you were with me. It wasn't a random attack, Lutz was there to kill me, and he almost killed you instead."

"What, you're the only cop who's got enemies? Next week it could be someone with a grudge tracking me down. Where's the difference?"

"The difference is that your apartment has a steel door with deadbolts, and you only let in people you know. My place has a glass front and I let total strangers walk right in, and I feed them breakfast before they try to kill people I... I care about."

Beaumont was looking at him with a wary expression. "So, what, you're saying I'm not safe when I'm with you?"

"Looks that way. If you aren't with me, at least you'll only have your own lunatics to deal with."

Beaumont let her hands drop to her knees, and sat silent for a minute, then she said quietly, "Is this... are you saying... that you think we should stop seeing each other?" The uncertainty in her voice felt like a sliver of glass being pushed under his skin, but after a moment, he said, "Maybe."

"So do I get a say in this decision?" The edge in her voice felt like more glass in his flesh, and he turned away from her once more.

"You'd be safer."

"I'd be safer if I never left this apartment again, but that ain't gonna happen either."

"That's not the same..." Walsh started, but Beaumont cut him off.

"It's exactly the same. Sure, if you never take any risks, you don't get hurt. But you don't get much of anything else, either." She sighed, and shifted over to sit beside him. Until all this had happened, everything had been refreshingly uncomplicated. They shared a lot of interests, they had the same sense of humor, and they were definitely great in bed together. They hadn't needed to analyze and agonize over their relationship. "I'm trying to say that it's worth it. _You're_ worth it."

Walsh turned his head to look at her, and she could see the strain in his face, the self-doubt in his eyes. "Am I?"

The bitterness in his voice made her ache with wanting to ease his anguish. In some ways the shooting hadn't been as hard on her as it had on Walsh. It seemed that it was easier to heal the physical damage she'd suffered, than to ease the mental torment, the self-blame he was feeling. Beaumont was convinced that his fears for her safety were mostly irrational, but she knew it wasn't just what had happened to her that haunted him. He'd been carrying a load of guilt over the murder of his girlfriend, all those years ago. It was no wonder that he wasn't thinking straight, with that on his conscience. And she wasn't sure how to make him understand that she honestly didn't blame him for what that lowlife son of a bitch had done.

At last, he put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. "It's not worth me going back to sleep now," he said. "I'm going to shower and head in to work early – take care of some paperwork." He spoke lightly, but to Beaumont it sounded forced, as if he were putting on an act to reassure her that he was fine.

By the time Walsh had showered, Beaumont had coffee ready, and he smiled when she handed him a mugful. For a few minutes, while he drank it and they talked about inconsequential matters, things almost felt normal between them. Then he put the empty mug in the sink, and kissed her, but when she said "See you tonight," he evaded her gaze, and as he was closing the door behind him, he said. "I'll call you."

Beaumont stood in the middle of the room, with an icy feeling inside her, like she'd just been doused with cold water.


	3. Chapter 3

At first glance, the diner was in darkness. Beaumont hesitated, wondering if Walsh was actually there. If she went in and he wasn't home, it would feel like she was creeping. She was about to turn away and head back to her place, when she spotted the faint glow of light from the back rooms. Well, if she went in, and he wasn't there, she could always leave, there was no harm in that.

Normally, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. But with the way he'd been acting that morning, she wasn't as sure of her welcome as usual. He'd said he would call her, but she hadn't heard from him all day. Even if he was involved in a case, he would have called her. It was almost 11pm now, and he was supposed to have gotten off work at 6pm. So either he was still working and too busy to call, or he just hadn't wanted to talk to her. Well, if that was the case, so be it. But he should at least have the guts to tell her. She unlocked the door and went in, making sure that she locked it properly behind her. "Walsh?" she called.

There was no reply, so she headed for the back room. Halfway there she hesitated, seeing the faint stain on the floor, where she'd fallen after the bullet had hit her. It was the first time she'd been back here since the shooting. She looked at the bloodstain for a few moments then shrugged. It had happened. She'd survived. No need to get hung up about a mark on the floor. She walked over it, and stopped just inside the bedroom. Walsh was asleep on the bed, still fully dressed, and he looked as if it was the first time he'd slept in days. Was it just the lighting in here, or had she really not noticed those dark shadows around his eyes before?

Well, maybe he'd sleep better if he wasn't subconsciously on the alert for signs that she needed him. She was about to turn away, when he stirred and opened his eyes. He tensed when he realized there was someone in the room, and made as if he was starting to reach for something beside the bed, then he recognized her, and relaxed. "Must have dozed off for a moment," he mumbled, rubbing his hand across his face. "I came home to change – maybe we can go out for dinner tonight..."

Beaumont smiled. "Walsh, it's eleven pm. I already ate."

Walsh sat up hurriedly, turning to look at the clock. "Shit!" He looked up at Beaumont. "I guess it was more than a moment. Sorry."

"Look like you needed the sleep more than dinner," she said. She went to sit on the bed beside him. "Just how many nightmares you been having?"

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "A lot," he finally admitted. "I haven't slept much the past week or so."

"Since you've been staying with me?" When he nodded, Beaumont got up again. "You should stay here tonight then." She turned to walk out; even though it was her suggestion she found herself feeling kind of hurt.

"Allison..."

They so rarely used each others' first names that it was enough to stop her. She heard him get up, then his arms went around her from behind.

"I took your advice," he said, his breath warm on the side of her neck.

Distracted by the touch, it was a few moments before she asked, "Which advice?"

"The part about talking to someone."

"Yeah?" She turned to face him. He looked almost embarrassed by the admission, and she smiled. "Hey. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Walsh grinned. "It's a guy thing. You know – if you don't talk about your feelings they're not real. Anyhow, I talked to Brown." He sat down on the bed, pulling Beaumont to sit beside him. His arm slipped around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. It was the first time since she'd gotten out of the hospital that things actually felt normal between them.

"So what did he say?" she asked.

"Well, first of all he tore me a new one, for not clearing the 'interoffice romance' with him." He grinned again. "I think he was more pissed because he hadn't picked up on it himself. Anyway, then he told me that I looked like shit, so I told him I've been sleeping badly." Walsh paused for a moment. He didn't intend to recount the details of the conversation. His boss had shared some personal experiences that he wasn't about to pass on.

"He understands. He said all cops have stuff they feel responsible for, times when people got hurt – and when it's close to home, it can really screw you up." It was a gross oversimplification of the hour long conversation he'd had with Brown but it was the conclusion that was important, not how they'd got there. Walsh smiled. "He told me to get my head out of my ass."

Beaumont's mouth quirked at the corner. "That's it. That's the best advice he could come up with?"

Walsh chuckled. "Nah, I think he was just taking the opportunity to finally say it. He told me that if I can't let go of this, then I've let Lutz win. Last time..." He drew a breath. He hadn't realized that Brown knew about the murder of his girlfriend, though in retrospect it shouldn't have surprised him. "He said that last time I had no control. But this time it's my decision. I can choose not to lose the person I care about – if that's what I want." He held her gaze for a while. "And that is what I want."

Beaumont smiled, feeling the knot of anxiety within her relax. She raised her hand and stroked Walsh's cheek, and he turned his head to kiss her palm.

"He also told me to give you a little more credit for understanding the risks."

"Yeah – that's what I've been telling you all along."

Walsh nodded. "What I said is true, though. This place isn't exactly secure. Customers can just walk right in and pull a gun..."

Beaumont chuckled. "The way you cook, I'm surprised they don't do it more often!"

Walsh laughed, and let himself collapse back on the bed. "So I'll beef up security. Bars on the window, maybe, security camera, a giant guard dog, whatever..." He looked up at the unfinished ceiling above him and his eyes widened. "Maybe a 'Beware of the attack spider' sign.."

Beaumont followed his gaze and gave an exaggerated shudder. "Put one of those in a cage on the counter, it'll scare off any potential attacker."

Walsh reached for her hand, and drew her down to lie beside him. "So – you gonna stay tonight?"

Beaumont looked thoughtful. "I dunno... those spiders look kinda hungry..." But she leaned on one elbow, and kissed him, her hand moving to the buttons of his shirt. She'd expected that the first time she came back here, she'd be more nervous, but it was like he'd said – she knew the risks. They were part of the job. And if they let the risks stop them having a life, well, then the bad guys had won, and she wasn't about to let that happen!

Much later, drifting close to sleep, and listening to the sound of Beaumont breathing slowly and evenly beside him, Walsh came to much the same conclusion. He had his share of guilt over past events, but he wasn't about to let it get in the way of what he had in his life now. He'd deal with his own ghosts; no need for them to haunt Beaumont too. He turned to look at her, and ran a finger down the side of her face, very lightly so as not to wake her.

As he let his eyes drift shut, he had a feeling that he would sleep well tonight.

THE END


End file.
